Of Wrath and Warthogs
by GeminiGemelo
Summary: 'What if's make the world go 'round, right? So what if, in TLK1.5, Pumbaa and his meerkat friend came into contact with a certain golden king of the Pridelands? Would it end definitively, or in disaster? Rated K because, honestly, would Pumbaa ever hurt a fly?


_**A/N: **This is a one-shot I wrote recently with a different take than most of my stories. Instead of trying to express some profound lesson or sentimentality or something of that sort, I decided to simply wing it and write something that was (hopefully) witty and humorous due to time constraints._

_As to whether I succeeded: well, this fic finished first in MLK's Fanfiction Writing Contest #16, so obviously I did _something _right._

_I decided to publish this as readers saw it on the site, which more or less means it was hurriedly finished on Monday, March 4th at about 1 o'clock in the morning in time for a midnight deadline. Yeah, I kind of marginally missed it... needless to say, I didn't have time for last minute editing or polishing and was iffy with the results, so there may be some errors. Nothing too bad, just word repetition and such... :3_

_Anyways, enjoy... :p_

* * *

"Huh, sure is nice weather out here, huh, Pumbaa?"

A small meerkat tread slowly across the savannah, an ineffable and optimistic smile across his face as he walked enthusiastically across the waves of golden grass. The long stalks of foliage parted as he walked through them, several bushes rustling as he gently pushed back the green, healthy branches… which promptly swung back and hit his companion squarely in the face.

"Uh, yeah, it sure is"—he paused, spitting out several leaves—"_great_, Timon. Say, do you remember what I was saying about that plac—?"

"The big, pointy rock? Yep, I remember it alright, buddy! Just look at this: wide open spaces, great view, a cerulean sky all around us. It's… it's…"

"A little crowded, Timon."

The meerkat jumped onto the back of his sidekick, a ruddy-colored warthog who had recently agreed to help him find his own little piece of heaven. His "dream home," as he so often referred to it. He shaded his eyes with one of his hands, squinting to see in the blinding sunshine which was so generously spread throughout the land. Only the acacia trees served as shade in this flat landscape. Surely enough, though, there _was _a crowd… and they were gathered near that same big, pointy rock.

"Yeesh, you'd have thought that they'd sold out by now. I bet they're having a_ rock_ concert, buddy. AHAHAHAHA! Get it? A _rock _concert? Heehee, that one gets me every time, oooh…" he patted his friend on the back, only to awkwardly notice that he was not sharing in his mirth. Alas, Pumbaa simply didn't have the taste in puns that Timon did.

"_Ahem_, well then… let's go check it out."

"Uh, but Timon… I don't do so well in crowds…"

"Nonsense, buddy, there's nothing to worry about!"

He hopped off and ran through more brush, the warthog sighing and following him quietly. Indeed, he had to trot simply to keep up with Timon, who was already quite close to procession.

To his surprise—and obvious disappointment, if his wild gesticulations proved anything—it didn't seem as though anything interesting was happening at the rock, other than some lackluster procession. He could vaguely see a mandrill lifting up some sort of small, furry animal, but he didn't particularly want to know what it was.

"What's that, Timon?" Pumbaa queried quietly, already having reached the outer rim of the crowd.

"I don't know, but whatever it is, it doesn't look like it's very entertaining." He walked forwards a few paces, trying to weasel his way through the crowd. Even he, as small as he was, had a hard time… and it was just his luck that one of the gazelles conveniently decided to plant his hoof right on the little animal's foot.

"_Ouch!_" he yelled, glowering at the ungulate as he clumsily continued, clutching his throbbing foot.

"Hey, guys, I'm _walking _here! _Get out of the way_!"

Pumbaa snorted at the animal as he walked by, though his indignant expression was quickly replaced by his default, affable countenance. Alas, it was hard enough to make his way through the leopards and the cheetahs, say nothing of the large and hot-tempered rhinos, which he didn't particularly want to mess with.

"Excuse me! Coming through! Come on! Hello, I'm back here! Can you move?"

Timon screeched, unable to move past the hulking mass of animal known as the rhinoceros… two of them stood morosely and blockaded his away, either ignorant of or careless to the small animal's pleas behind them.

"Looks like we'll have to go around… hmm, we could go over there, but… no… well…" the meerkat studied his surroundings absently, rubbing his chin as he thought of the best way to find passage. Pumbaa, however, was quickly distracted by his own plight.

"Uh, Timon, remember how I said I don't like crowds very much?"

"Yeah, yeah, buddy," he waved his hand dismissively, caught up in his thought, "look, this'll just take one second and then we'll be home free. This way, Pumbaa. Warthogs first."

His hooves clacked across the packed dirt, the noise surprisingly loud considering how many animals he was surrounded by. Indeed, they were all standing cordially, waiting for something that was seemingly at the top of the adjacent rock.

"Hey, what's up there, Timon?" Pumbaa shifted uncomfortably, looking at what appeared to be a very large, very proud, and very majestic-looking _lion_. As in, the top predators on the entire food chain, surrounded by what was essentially a congregation of random assorted prey animals. Needless to say, that did nothing to ease his tension, which was already running quite high. He had bad experiences with crowds, mainly due to the fact that he was a pig and pigs tend to smell… well, not that great.

Timon, however, did not seem to hear him, as he was preoccupied with problems of his own while navigating the sea of spectators.

"Watch it, buddy!"

"Puh, how rude."

"Yeah, hello to you too, buddy."

Several disgruntled animals interjected acerbically as the duo walked by, Timon pointedly careless to the annoyance of the other creatures around him. Only Pumbaa seemed to guiltily pay their angry words any mind.

"Uh, Timon…"

"Outta the way, ya overgrown chickens! _Yeah_, I'm talkin' to you!" he shoved his way past some ostriches, before turning briefly to his compatriot. "What was that, Pumbaa?"

"Could you guys shut up? The king is speaking!"

"Yeah, either get out of here or quit being a nuisance!"

"Timon," Pumbaa addressed the meerkat again hopefully, now absently shifting weight from side to side as he walked. It was already physically uncomfortable to be pressed so close to so many strangers, and he wouldn't be able to control himself for very much longer.

"_Well_," Timon stopped, looking miffed for the first time as he angrily placed his hands on his hips, "sorry I'm not good enough to be in your little gathering here. I'll just keep going and look for my _dream home _somewhere else, thank you very much! Sayonara!"

"Timon…"

"Yeah, yeah, you great big _mook_, move aside!"

"TIMON!"

"WHAT?" Timon turned around to face him, his expression showing his irritation as his hand absently and uncontrollably swung outwards, slapping an innocent mouse square across the face.

_Smack!_

The meerkat quickly withdrew and was about to apologize to the poor fellow, only to find that he had already scattered away, seeking safety by darting about through the crowd and eventually settling a bit too close to a cheetah's tail.

His mate, of course, clumsily tried to bat it away… but somehow managed to smack an unsuspecting gazelle square in the hindquarters. Thinking it to be some sort of attack, the gazelle jumped forwards and kicked, only for his bad aim to send his hooves flying into some other poor, unfortunate animal…

"Uh, Timon…"

"Yeah?" He suddenly looked guilty, watching as everyone around them gradually panicked and fell in uncoordinated and chaotic heaps and droves, the chain reactions of impacts spreading quickly through the densely packed area.

"This doesn't look good."

The meerkat looked up, only to find that most of the crowd had already dispersed and given them a wide berth. Perhaps the only good thing about their intrusion was that, for once, the desire for the animals to give the duo a wide radius was less due to Pumbaa and more due to the fact that, to name one example, a charging rhino was indiscriminately running amok around the premises. Not getting gored was a surprisingly strong incentive for them to leave, after all.

"… Agreed."

Mufasa stood on the top of a rock, scanning the kingdom below as his newborn son was presented before the gathered kingdom. It had been an affair with much cheering and jovial feelings, but the most borin—er, I mean _important_,part was yet to come: the presentation speech. He had climbed to the top of the rock and basked in the light of the early morning, reveling in just how it made his awesome, golden coat gleam. After all, what was the point in grooming and maintaining such an abundance of fur if it didn't make him look stunningly regal on important, sunny days like this?

"Look, sire, how they bow before the royal heir!"

Zazu, his talkative hornbill assistant, interjected with no small show of smugness. The king only smiled proudly in acknowledgment—he said nothing, for it was imperative that he keep his vocal chords for the procession that was sure to come.

It was going to be pretty long.

Finally, his smile faded, and he looked back over shoulder towards where the royal audience was allowed to sit and watch the procession. The queen Sarabi was there, patiently looking onwards, with their cub in her paws. Her sister was gathered, admiring the little prince as he pawed at her nose. Even his mother, aged as she was, sat and cooed at her grandchild.

Where was his brother?

He drew his lips into a grim expression. Sure, he could be a _little _long-winded—granted, it was more like a lot—but why would he not want to be present at the public display of his nephew? Was he being tardy or simply and disrespectfully hedging the ceremony altogether? Why hadn't Scar made an appearance?

Turning back to face the crowd, he began his speech, the first thirty minutes of which the author does not remember and hence has chosen to omit.

What was that? You want to know what he said about the handsome prince Simba?

Honestly, dear reader, if _you_ were an antelope forced to stand in a tight, uncomfortable space for close to an hour amidst a bunch of sweaty, reeking, dirty savannah animals, you would feel quite differently about that. You're welcome.

Mufasa looked down at the crowd, hoping that most of them were still awake and hadn't drifted off yet. Alas, fortunately for him and his sense of dignity, most of them were… if only because complete pandemonium had ensued down below while he had stared at beautiful landscape of his kingdom and absently followed his train of thought.

"… and that is why this kingdom shall prosper under… what… what on earth is happening?"

He suddenly grew concerned as, seemingly out of nowhere, the animals started stirring and running into one another, snarling and growling and screeching and squawking and… oh, it was a mess.

"It looks like the animals are running away from something, sire."

"I can see that," he responded simply, eyes narrowing as he tried to find the source of the trouble. As far as he could see, there was no real reason for them to be afraid… though the most terrorized ones had to be, no doubt, the two figures he caught standing stock-still in the middle of the entire scene.

A meerkat and a warthog.

His eyes narrowed, and he was just about to head down the promontory when he saw that his mate had somehow beat him to it, charging at the stunned pair angrily. Indeed, the hunting party had, oddly enough, come up empty-handed today… what was wrong with eating the warthog that had all but ruined her son's presentation?

Mufasa suddenly found himself running after her, disappearing from his place at the top of the majestic rock and jumping into the metaphorical war zone below. Alas, it would seem as though finding two animals of relatively small size would be quite difficult, but in fact it was quite simple. Namely because, as usual, Timon could not only _not _keep his mouth shut, but was also screaming at a volume which would put most murder victims to shame.

"PUMBAA, SHE'S GONNA EAT US! SHE'S GONNA EAT US!"

Most meerkats would resort to retreating into a hole in such a situation, but since he was far from home and absolutely abominable at digging, this was, sadly, not an option. Perhaps the only saving grace for the hapless meerkat was the fact that an ostrich—namely, the same angry individual he had called an overgrown chicken not a full five minutes before—had had just enough time in its panic to run across him and kick him.

Ostriches can kick pretty hard. And since Timon happened to be an animal with a small mass… well, his acceleration was roughly equivalent to that of a punted football. The air he got would have almost been impressive, had he not face-planted and come to rest quietly on the ground some 20 yards away. Needless to say, he needed a pretty lengthy time-out, which was exacted on him in the form of temporary unconsciousness and plenty of headaches for weeks to come.

It was not pleasant, though the now-alone and hunted Pumbaa was not much better off. Running around aimlessly and wildly, he was hard-pressed to find any form of shelter or escape from the rapidly-gaining form of the angry queen. Finally he tripped, screaming, and was about to resign himself to his fate when the shining figure of the king leapt in front of her, his coat flashing in Pumbaa's eyes as the sun glinted off of his muscular body.

"H-honey… what are you doing?" Sarabi stopped, her expression suddenly changing from hungry and focused to surprised and confused.

"Sarabi, dear…" he focused his gaze sternly on the pig, then looked at her with calm eyes, "you know we're forbidden from hunting during special gatherings, as the circle of life depends upon our magnanimity. It's a grand tradition of our ancestors, in order to promote peace and tranquility in our bountiful homelands. And on this day, when the Circle turns yet again to reveal our own child, after so much time, it is all too important that we honor our newfound gift and spare the life of this innocent being."

Pumbaa blinked.

"You're just saying that because you want to talk to this porcine alone, aren't you?" Sarabi sighed and cocked an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You could have simply said that."

"Err, well… yes," he conceded guiltily.

Sarabi shrugged. "Well I suppose, if you really want to… I have to get back to Simba anyways. Otherwise your mom will cuddle him half to death like she did with Sara's cub…" she walked off indifferently, leaving the pair completely alone in the savannah.

A warthog, completely alone and lying in the dirt in front of a fully-grown, muscular lion. Obviously a strange mix by any definition.

"Thank you so much for saving me, Mr. Lion. It was awfully nice of you. But, uh… have you seen my meerkat friend?"

"No, I have not. Though from what I understand, you two caused quite the stir today. Would you care to explain?"

"Uh, yeah…" Pumbaa began awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head with his hoof. "That'd be Timon. You see, he's… _we're_… not from around here."

Mufasa's brow furrowed, the lion clearly confused. "I see… but why did you decide to come to the Pridelands? More importantly, why did you want to see my son's presentation?"

"Oh, we were just passing through, Mr. Lion, sir."

"Please, call me Mufasa."

"_Mr. Mufasa. _You see, uh, just wanted to find a place to live. Someone told him that there was 'Hakuna Matata' beyond the big, pointy rock. We didn't mean to ruin your son's pre—"

"Hakuna Matata?" he queried, now looking even more confused than before. "What is that?"

"It means 'no worries'," Pumbaa beamed, looking slightly more confident than before. "It's what the two of us were both looking for."

Mufasa smirked almost indistinguishably, his expression slightly amused. "Well, when you're king, I'm afraid there is no such thing."

"King?" Pumbaa's eyes widened in shock, as though he suddenly realized the whole gravity of the situation. Throwing himself at the king's paws, he recanted. "Your Majesty, I really had no idea! I apologize! Please spare me!'

"There's no need for that," Mufasa stated simply, withdrawing his paw. Alas, what they said about not being natives was true: _everyone _in the Pridelands was familiar with their glamorous golden king. There was simply not a being in the Pridelands that walked, crawled, swam, flew, or dug in its soil and did not know of the king's name.

"But Your Royal Highness, I must! You are a king! You deserve respect."

Mufasa chuckled. "I am a king now. But you see, friend, it makes no difference in the end. For here in the Pridelands, we have something called the Circle of Life. Have you heard of it?"

Pumbaa shook his head in the negative.

"You see, we may eat, say, warthogs, in our life. But when we die, our bodies become a part of the grass. And now, think about it… what do the warthogs eat?"

"Bugs!" he exclaimed excitedly, grinning at the lion. Perhaps that wasn't the best example to use… "At least, not so much the slimy ones. I'm a fan of the crunchier ones myself. You know, the ones that _snap _in your mouth: those are the good ones!"

"… That's not exactly what I meant…"

"Well, if you're asking _me_, I'd say the best… best… flavor are the ones… that taste very piqua… piquan… pecans. Boy, I hit my head harder than I thought," the grass rustled as Timon walked up, looking very battered and seemingly about to keel over. The fact that he had walked from his place of landing to them was a feat in itself.

"This is my friend Timon. Timon, meet—"

"AAAAH! LION!" the meerkat, still terrified and quite clearly not in his right mind, cowered behind his friend's foreleg.

"You have nothing to fear from me, my friend." He bent down to Timon's level and tried to address him, though that was a largely unsuccessful endeavor. Turning back to Pumbaa, he continued. "Well, in any case, I should be off, er…"

"Pumbaa, at your service, Your Majesty!"

"Pumbaa, I wish you the best of luck in your trip for a worry-free life. Just remember that such things do not last forever." He smiled at the pair, then turned and left as quickly as he came, his golden coat rippling in the sunlight. Pumbaa beamed inwardly, stoked by the fact that he—_he, a flatulent warthog_—had conversed with royalty. Alas, had he not been in such a hurry to find his Hakuna Matata, he would have liked to have… wait…

"Your Majesty!" he called out, trying to get the golden lion to turn around and acknowledge him. "_Your Majesty!"_

"_What_?" Timon yelled, obviously cranky, as he lay sprawled out by his side. "You _want _that lion to come back?"

"He never explained to me what the Circle of Life was…" he frowned, now wishing he had been able to learn of the secret of the lion's beliefs. The spirit of brotherhood and equality which, quite interestingly, roamed about the land ruled by lions and yet lived in by many. Alas, _this_ almost could have been their dream home…

"Circle of Life?" Timon asked, shading his eyes as well as he could from the sun. "Pfft, the only circles I see around here are those big, bright yellow ones flying around in the sky. The one, two, five… four… five of them. Wow, I don't remember everything moving around this much before I passed out."

"Uh, I don't think you should be staring at the sun, Timon. You could damage your corneas and then—"

"Yeah, yeah, right, I could damage my corn. You're right. Because what we should _really _be looking for is our dream home, don'tcha think, buddy? Let's beat it outta this place." He leapt up with a spry move, climbing onto the warthog's back and collapsing onto it.

"Well, I dunno. This seems like a _really _nice place, Timon."

"Nah, I don't do so well in crowds. Do you remember that place I told you about with the waterfalls?"

Pumbaa shrugged. Actually it was _he _who had told _Timon_ about the waterfalls, not the other way around… but then, he supposed it didn't matter. Timon was right—their Hakuna Matata wasn't going to search for itself, now, was it?

"Let's head over there, buddy," he called faintly, his thoughts incoherent as he buried his face into his companion's neck and held on as the warthog picked up a trot towards the jungle.

"Listen, I don't care… if… if we have to cross deserts, or fall off a waterfall. If we live on our own, or even adopt some sort of kid or something someday, you know, buddy? But let's never, never, _ever _come back here… alright?"

* * *

_OH NO, IT'S IRONY! _

_See you all soon... I've got to go work on Trampled. :p Plus I'm tired after today's lacrosse game. lol_

_Hasta luego y unos algos despedidas y etc... salud a mis lectores! :D_

_Twin_

_- Twin_


End file.
